Playing it Safe Part 1

Life is for living, I always say.  I want to try everything, go everywhere, and make the most of my time.  I try not to go too far, but I have been known to push the envelope.  

That day I was playing it safe.

After all, it was my first day in Buenos Aires.  It was a new city, I’d only gotten to Argentina a few days before; I wanted to get my bearings before doing anything too crazy.  I would just walk around and explore Palermo, the eclectic, foreigner-friendly neighborhood I was staying in.  Get some of the things I was out of (shampoo and that sort of thing), stop by some of the cute little shops, a museum, maybe go to one of the parks and write a bit, that sort of thing.  No definite plans but to relax and enjoy the gorgeous sunny day and idyllic 75-degree weather.  And I did just that. 

After lunch I turned off bustling Cordoba Avenue onto a quiet street without the push of people lining the street. Besides, the beautiful neighborhood would be a wonderful place to take some pictures.  I wasn’t used to taking a lot of pictures, but J had given me the perfect travel camera for my birthday a few weeks earlier.  The perfect travel camera – a little point and shoot shockproof, waterproof Olympus.  The perfect present for a girl setting out on an adventure. I wanted to make the most of it. 

One moment I was relishing the weather, taking pictures of flowers, and wondering where the nearest park was.  The next I heard a car door.  A slightly-built man, an inch taller than me at most, walked toward me.  Wearing a nondescript t-shirt and jeans, his lined face and streaks of grey in his wild hair made him look to be in his mid-40s.  He stopped very close, partially blocking my path.  

For a moment I was thoroughly confused. He’d just gotten out of a car so chances were pretty good he wasn’t a beggar.  If he needed directions even if I did speak Spanish I wouldn’t be any help, just having gotten to the city. What did he want?

“Pardon, no hablo español.”  Almost before I said it, he reached for my camera. 

Confused, I pulled back and started to put it in my pocket.  Rather than releasing the camera he glared balefully, motioned with his head.  I glanced in the down in the direction he gestured just as he jabbed the sleek of silvery-grey muzzle of his gun into my stomach three times.  Lifting his head chin he dared me to resist. 

“That’s terrible! Were you scared?” everyone asks.

“It was really scary,” I tell them. 

That’s what they want to hear.  After all, what kind of person has a gun pulled on them and feels nothing?  It goes against our most primordial instinct of self-preservation: fight or flight.  In potentially life-threatening situations the heart races and adrenaline courses through the veins, spurring you to fight, to run – to save yourself.  

I looked down at the gun and back.  Sunken, glassy eyes, with desperate huger behind them this man facing me was clearly in the clutches of some heavy drugs.  I made the assessment with a curiously detached sense of calm.  No elevated heart rate.  No butterflies.  No fear.  I didn’t have options; whatever happened at this point was not up to me. I had no control. 

There was no sense of helplessness as I watched him pull the camera strap off of my wrist.  I felt no emotional connection to the situation.  Next he reached for my purse, I let the strap slide over my shoulder unresisting.  Not upset, not scared, not angry; utterly numb. 

He would doubtlessly throw it away when he realized what the bag contained:  weeks of writing, my address book; innumerable items priceless to me but worthless to him.  All items of “value” were safe back where I was staying, and cash and cards under my clothes.  But I did not realize this until later.  I did not even feel a sense of loss.

He pulled the purse strap from around my neck, jumped into his car and pulled away.  On autopilot I noted the license plate and try my best to remember it.  Pens and paper gone, all I could do was repeat the plate numbers in an endless litany.  I waved getting the attention of a boy across the street and motioned for him to come over.

Not confident I could remember the license plate number, and try to speak Spanish I repeated it over and over until I got the boy to write it down.  Only then did I discover that not only did he speak English, but he was actually from Chicago.  Kindly he helped me call the police, accompanied me to the station, and translated, helping me file the report. 

Thankfully I was not injured but losing weeks worth of writing, that hurt.  Rather than risk having something like that happen again, I took it as a sign.  I scratched my original plan of written on the road and step away from writing until I was settled.  Of course I took notes, but I no longer spent hours a day scribbling in my notebooks or in front of a computer.  

This way I could concentrate on the experience, focus on meeting people, and learning.  This way I wouldn't have to stretch myself too thin.  I would gain a better understanding of myself, the world, and brain injury and therapy.  

But this is only part one of the story, there are still many loose ends....